


slap happy

by inacolloquialsense



Category: Impractical Jokers
Genre: M/M, Slapping, i don't know what warrants warning, mention of bruising, veins and body stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 17:28:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12089859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inacolloquialsense/pseuds/inacolloquialsense
Summary: “This is a stupid idea.”“You’re a stupid idea.”summary: mid-twenty somethings get bored. reminiscing leads to fun violence





	slap happy

**Author's Note:**

> (original title punch drunk love, but i decided against it) reality has no place here. okay

“You did with Carmine.” Q placed two cards on the growing house.

He shakes his head. “No. That was Sal, I think.”

“What about Marco?” His heart stops as half of the top layer collapses. Luckily there’s not an avalanche and he can carefully sweep them off to start anew.

The bottle of coke he’s holding spins and spins. Too much energy. It happens whenever he invites Q over. Only this time they elected to stay in. “I’m telling you, I’ve never been in a fight.” 

“How is that possible with the amount of shit you spew every second?” He’s nearly squinting. It’s hard to tell what he’s looking at anymore. All dark brown turned black in the lack of light.

“I’m a people person. Everybody loves me.” Teeth are too bright. Shark-y kind of smile that doesn’t wrinkle his face in all the right places.

“Oh. Right, of course. My mistake.” He rolls his eyes. Slams his fist against the table to watch his work tumble.

The deck is of no use. James refused to play poker, Q’s had three rounds of solitaire, and war is boring. The whole point of coming over was to do something fun. Quinn turns his head and throws a card at Murr.

“Entertain me.”

Legs flop off the bed, and for a moment Murray is still again. He is pulled up by invisible strings. “How?” His head lolls to the side and his neck makes a loud crack.

“Let’s play a game.” Childlike glee pulls his cheeks up. He is devilish. A wolf revealed from its disguise. “Put out your arms. Palms up.”

James follows the instructions and gets a fast slap on the forearm. He withdraws. “Hey. What the fuck?” Protectively shields himself with both arms to his chest.

Brian doesn’t see the problem. “It’s a part of the game. Now your turn.” He holds out his arm. Waiting patiently. Sticking out his pointer and middle finger together he gestures. “Just hit me like I hit you.” He does the motion.

“I thought you wanted to play Mario or something.” Murray hasn’t budged. Still wary of what might happen should he expose himself.

“No, this’ll be fun. You used to love slaps.” He tugs at him until Murray’s arms are at his sides. “Do you want to play bloody knuckles instead?”

He gives in quickly. “Yeah, okay fine.” James slams down with as much force two fingers can muster. “You were the one who liked it so much.”

A hiss escapes him, but it’s quickly followed by laughter. “I never heard you raise a stink about it.” 

Calloused fingers hurt more, and he’s always had the advantage in that department. The game tipped in his favor, but he tried to hit softer than Murr to make up for it. Maybe half of the time, at least. The fucker was stronger than he looked, and sometimes Brian wondered if he ever anything held back. Probably not, and he loves him for it. Just a healthy competition between two growing boys. Harmless. Perhaps less so once puberty ate them up and spat them out. 

“Just because you hit like a drunk two year-old.” Murray makes a face and sticks his tongue out. 

Pride on the line, he doesn’t twitch when Q takes his turn. Pink blossoms on his skin, but manic giggles come out. The thing about the game is how easy it is in the moment. Adrenaline and testosterone fuel his bravado. Hubris builds. Going harder and harder. Unrelenting in their pace. In some reptilian part of their brain the idea of weakness became entwined with emotion, really any reactionary movement. It’s only after when they’re sifting through the freezer for peas that sucks. 

Sure there’s some pain, but for the first few rounds it’s tingles. Feeling their skin pressed closer than it ever has before. Not where they want it and not the body parts they’re hoping for, but it’s enough. Tomorrow there might be bruises (with luck), and Quinn will reach for them under his desk. Press onto them when he’s bored. Relive the sight of Murr red-faced and breathing heavy in his bedroom. Both snickering and laughing, because god shit their arms hurt just not in a bad way. An addicting kind of sting like your tongue prodding the same sore spot over and over. James gets his own flashbulb memories every time he lifts with his left arm. Dark irises nearly lost in the expanse of black holes, lips gone puffy from teeth digging into them. Expecting. Perfect crescent indentations in his palm and weighty lungfuls expelled in close quarters. Anticipating.

There’s a thing Brian does when he wants to bow out. The right side of his face bunches up and his hands clench. Veins in his arms pop out, tendons and muscle becoming prominent. When he fully tenses it leaves less cushion, leaving both participating parties in a worse state. It makes James try harder. The long running score hasn’t been tallied in years, but he knows he’s losing by some margin.

They exchange curses and hard glares for the next few minutes. Blow after blow their resistance diminishes. First it’s shaking. Then comes switching of hands. Arm waving and flailing to swing blood where it should be. Blowing on the marred flesh as if it would help. Until one of them gives in.

“Oh, man. You win. Fuck. You see this shit. I’m on fire.” Discoloured skin flows through many beautiful sanguine shades. On his pale complexion it’s easy to pick out the spots where Murr’s hits landed. He’s running his hand up and down said limb. The sounds he makes cause red to climb up James’ throat. Glance flicking up causes more. Q knows it.

Caught watching. “I’m gonna, uh, get ice.” He offers. Scooting out of the room. Definitely need something to cool down.

Let it be known in future games James kisses him better. (And they might play on more than their forearms.)


End file.
